I started drinking at the Kum he was wearing a white Pbr tee with yellow pit stains. The third man was different. He had bad eyes. I’d seen that kind of eyes before. A leather jacket in spite of the heat. Bare chest thick with graying hair. Jeans. Boots.

I stared at them, trying to stand up straight. It was like a high wind was blowing through my head. If I let go of the urinal, it would blow me over. The room seemed darker, and I’d lost track of the long-dicking in the stall. Lost track of the stalls. From a long way off, a part of me that was no longer in control realized my vision was tunneling.

“Fuck,” the one in the leather jacket said. “How much did you give him?”

The one in the Pbr tee snorted. “Should’ve used a horse tranquilizer. Little faggot just wouldn’t go down.”

Leather Jacket shook his head and walked out.

“Come on,” the one in the Captain America T-shirt said. It took me a moment to realize he was talking to me.

The one in the Pbr tee said, “Hey, come on! Let’s go!”

I could barely hear them over the wind in my head. I wasn’t thinking anymore, not by that point, but the same part of me that had recognized the bad eyes of the man in the leather jacket shook my head now.

“Yeah, buddy,” Captain America said. He caught my arm and pulled me away from the urinal. “We’re going to have fun.”

Pbr laughed. When I stumbled, he caught my other arm, and then the two of them were half carrying me, half marching me out of the restroom. Instead of heading back to the main area of the club, they turned down the service hallway. I shook my head again and tried to say no. But what came out was a moan and a string of drool that felt hot against my cheek.

The crash of a fire door. And then the muggy night air. The stink of the dumpster. The broken asphalt tripping me. Pbr swore and yanked me upright. Captain America said, “You just can’t fucking wait. He didn’t need the last one.”

“It was last call!”

Captain America grunted as my legs folded again. “Jesus Christ. We’re going to be lucky if he can keep his eyes open.”

All the lights were out. Wil always made sure the safety lights were on. Bad things happened if they weren’t. Bad things happened in the dark. The night was so thick I thought I could feel it on my face. They were carrying me now, my shoes scraping the sidewalk.

I must have blacked out because the next thing I knew, I was on the ground, pavement rough under me. Someone was pulling my hair and slapping me, and even though the pain registered like it was happening in another place, it was enough to make me moan again and try to get a hand up.

“Open your fucking eyes!”

It was Pbr, but I could only tell by the voice. An intensely bright light was shining down on me. Maybe the pain had brought my brain back online—partly, anyway—because I realized, now, that the lights in the alley hadn’t been out. Darkness crowded my vision. Even under the glare of this nearby source of light, it was like I was looking down the barrel of a gun.

Pbr gave a final, vicious yank on my hair, and I cried out. “There,” he said, his voice moving away. “Let’s do this.”

“Ready?”

“We’re going live.” That sounded like Leather Jacket. “And…go.”

The toe of a boot caught me on the chin. Not a kick, but not gentle either, forcing my head back so that I was staring into the light, pinning me against what felt like a tire. My eyes watered. My vision swam. The sound came of a zipper lowering. And then a hot stream struck my cheek, and I smelled piss. A second stream joined it, splashing across my nose, into one eye.

I tried to duck my head. I tried to roll over. Some animal part of me thought maybe I could crawl away. The boot held me in place, though, and the slashes of piss kept coming—moving back and forth across my face, in my hair, my nose, my mouth. It all might have been happening to someone else. But it wasn’t.

One stream ended. Then the other. The boot moved away, and I slid to the ground. Pebbles bit into the back of my neck. My eyes burned, so I closed them against the light. They burned anyway, but less. I thought, from a long way off, I could feel the vibration of distant traffic.

The men were talking, the words swimming around me in the deep dark that was closing in. One of them laughed. More talking. And then, filtering down to wherever I was, an answer: “Some guys get off on freaks.”

Footsteps moved toward me. I rolled onto my side. My body felt like it belonged to someone else—heavy, sluggish, detached. I propped myself up with a hand. The piss had soaked my shirt and seeped into my trousers, and it was cooling rapidly now. I was shivering so hard that my elbow threatened to bend. But I forced myself to stay up. I could get on my hands and knees. I could crawl away from here.

A hand cracked against the side of my head. My vision went white. And then another slap landed. And then another. I fell back under the rain of blows.

“Stay down!”

I hit the ground so hard my head bounced off the pavement.

Stay down.

The grit of filthy linoleum sticking to my cheek. The radio blaring Bon Jovi. She was screaming.

She was screaming, and she needed me.

My breath was high in my chest. My head spun. I had to get up. I had to—

Before I could flop onto my stomach, a boot came down on my neck, forcing me onto my back. A different boot, because I could smell the horseshit on it. And not Pbr; it was Leather Jacket who leaned over me to speak.

“Ask for more.”

I choked as the pressure of the boot increased. I tried to grab the boot, shove it away. I tried to twist, struggle, fight to get free. The best I could manage was to get my hand on his boot. And then all I could do was hang on.

“Ask for more,” Leather Jacket said. The pressure on my neck increased. “Be a good little faggot and ask for more.”

That high, rushing wind in my head had gotten louder. I couldn’t breathe. Black whirled across my vision. My back arched—some final, instinctual response as the animal part of my brain tried to stay alive. I raked my nails against the leather of his boots, but I couldn’t get any purchase.

And then a siren chirped, and over a cruiser speaker came a voice. “What’s going on here?”

Shouts. Running footsteps. An engine cranking to life, and then a breath of exhaust, and the tires moving away. The voice on the speaker was issuing orders, but the sound of tires was already growing more distant. I thought I heard a car door. I thought I heard steps. It was all far off. Farther off. Gone.